


Narcissa

by Lochinvar



Series: Logos: Personal Magic and Lore [1]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Colorado, Curses, Denver, Desert, Drought, Fantasy, Gen, Narcissism, Native American/First Nations Legends & Lore, Native Lore, Short One Shot, Water Spirit, Witchcraft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:27:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 390
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23241745
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lochinvar/pseuds/Lochinvar
Summary: She's so pretty. Will it last?
Series: Logos: Personal Magic and Lore [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871242
Comments: 21
Kudos: 17





	Narcissa

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InTheGreySpaces](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InTheGreySpaces/gifts), [Linden](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Linden/gifts), [Paradigmenwechsel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Paradigmenwechsel/gifts), [JuniperJones](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JuniperJones/gifts).



> No Beta; all mistakes are mine to claim and bear.
> 
> Kudos and comments and bookmarks much appreciated - thank you.

The old woman, surely mad, taps the glass with a long dirty fingernail. She smells like dead mice.

The young woman stares at her own reflection, mirrored a dozen times in the giant glass cases of the dimly lit museum. She smiles, her image smiles a dozen times.

The old woman talks to the dead potters. She babbles about a snake. She points to a tall blue clay jar. Its surface is covered with stick figures and wavy lines. She says something about a snake in a flood and a hidden lake. Something about the eyes of the snake holding its prey. Something about animals and dust and thirst.

The young woman ought to listen, but she's looking at herself in the glass. She doesn't notice when the old woman curses her and leaves.

The skies over Denver dry up. Even the oldest trees, with taproots that crack bedrock, are dying.

The sky is the color of the blue jar in the museum.

The young woman moves to a shabby suburban condo on the rise of an ancient riverbed. She watches the prairie. When a hawk chases a vole, she wonders if it’s a sign. When the journey of a bull snake along the bank of the dead river sends up a cloud of yellow dust, she wonders if it’s a sign. The old woman had told her everything to look for, the bird signs, the weather signs. The young woman remembers the blue jar, tall and cool, and her own reflection.

She has decided to leave today. She packs a bag and slips into the bathroom to refresh her lipstick. She stares at her reflection. Her car is gassed up. She will be gone in five minutes, back to the Midwest and green lakes where the water is edged with mossy rocks.

She’s excited, and her hand shakes. Then the mirror, and then the whole building. The earth cracks, and she remembers the old woman's warning about the sign of the snake, the raised scales of his skin splitting the clay beneath the yellow prairie. She runs to the window. The long blue snake body uncoils along the old riverbed as the flood rushes toward the still, dry city. She is frozen for the rest of her brief life by the sight of herself in his blue clay eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by the severe winter drought of 1976-1977. The year before I had moved to Colorado from the Midwest; my apartment in Milwaukee was in walking distance of Lake Michigan. Lived in an apartment complex in suburban Denver surrounded by people just like our heroine. At the time, I thought my exodus to the Rocky Mountains was a very bad idea. I was wrong, thank goodness.
> 
> Entered this story in a contest–500 words or less–sponsored by a local newspaper. The top three award winners were printed, and yes, I was jealous. The publisher, a friend, called me up. She said that even though the names were removed from the entries, she recognized my style. (She already had recused herself from judging the submissions.) Told me I was #4. Thought I should know. Hardly anyone wrote fantasy, she said. And we both noticed that the three winners all had explicit sex and profanity. Dang it.
> 
> Wanted a place to park it.


End file.
